


The Gladiator to His Emperor

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Feron Can Buy His Freedom, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marcheaux is a Gladiator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: “Well, Georges,” the Governor purrs, “you must wonder why I am here.”

  Marcheaux has a fairly good idea. People pay a high price for an audience with a victorious gladiator—they don’t tend to come for a simple exchange of words.
Gladiator AU where Marcheaux is a gladiator and Feron is the Emperor's brother who senses an opportunity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> We watched Gladiator last weekend and the scene in the cell inspired me. Definitely helped by the description in the script for 3x01, where Marcheaux looks at Feron like "the gladiator to his emperor", which I will never get out of my head.

The first time Marcheaux sets eyes on the powerhouse of the empire they are in the arena.

It is the highest honour for a slave to be able to fight as a gladiator. He is one of the lucky ones: his penchant for fighting had drawn attention, and rather than spending a lifetime toiling in the fields, he had been bought by a trader who specialised in training gladiators for the arena.

His skills have not been wasted.  
  
He stands victorious above his opponent, the crowd cheering loudly at the display, and looks towards the Imperial Box.

He waits for the Emperor’s signal, squinting in the bright sunlight so as to better see the motion. The Emperor turns towards someone next him—seeking counsel—and Marcheaux’s eyes follow the movement. He recognises the Emperor’s brother from the descriptions he has heard from his fellow gladiators. The Governor is widely regarded by the Senate to be the scourge of the city, using his power for his own gains. That makes him no different to any other politician in Marcheaux’s eyes. He has been at the mercy of men with too much power all his life.

The Emperor raises his hand and a hush falls over the crowd. Marcheaux tears his gaze away from the Governor. A wave of anticipation ripples through the arena, as hundreds of people stare at the outstretched hand of the Emperor, awaiting his command. He raises his thumb.

Unchecked, Marcheaux’s eyes flick back to the Governor. The man’s eyes are already fixed on him. His stomach flips under the scrutiny, and he knows it has nothing to do with the fact he’s about to end a man’s life. He is all too aware that this is the Governor’s order that he is obeying.  
  
A downward motion and it is over.  
  
Marcheaux looks up once more. He bows in the direction of the Emperor, in deference, but does not take his eyes off the Governor.  
  
He feels those eyes burn like a brand against his back as he leaves the arena.

  
  
***

  
  
“Marcheaux, get up.” A rough voice breaks into Marcheaux’s thoughts, and he turns to see a guard at the door to his cell, keys in hand. “You have a visitor.”

He follows the man down a corridor leading deeper into their quarters, allowing himself to be escorted into a cell even darker than his own, completely isolated from the rest. There are no windows, and the thick wooden door has no bars in it; the only light in the room comes from a torch on the opposite wall. It is this wall he is lead to.

There are a pair of metal chains set into the stone, high enough to be meant to secure the arms. Another pair are set lower, for the ankles. The guard locks the cuffs at Marcheaux’s wrists. There is enough length in the chain to be able to stand comfortably away from the wall.  
  
The guard checks that he is secured and then leaves, locking the door behind him. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet of the cell. Marcheaux waits, eyes fixed on the door.  
  
“You made quite an impression in the arena,” a low voice says, sounding out of the darkness. The shadows in the corner of the room shift, and a hooded figure steps into the flickering light.  
  
Marcheaux drops his gaze to the floor. Even a cloak cannot disguise the identity of his visitor. “Thank you, sir,” he says. He does not know the correct form of address; he hopes keeping his eyes lowered is enough of a sign of respect.

“You are not surprised that I am here?”  
  
Marcheaux shakes his head. He can’t find words to explain that this situation seems as though it has been drawn straight out of his imaginings. He does not look up, even as the man draws closer.

“Look at me,” the man commands, drawing back his hood, and at last Marcheaux raises his head. The Governor’s eyes are impossibly dark, even in the direct glow of the torchlight. “Do you know who I am?” he asks.  
  
“You are the brother of the Emperor,” Marcheaux replies. He has not yet been able to erase the feeling of those eyes on him in the arena. This is what he had not allowed himself to hope for.  
  
“That’s right. I am Feron, Governor of this city,” he says. “And you?”  
  
“I am a slave.”  
  
The Governor’s face twists into something Marcheaux thinks could be a smile. It is obviously not an expression he has frequent need for.  
  
“Even slaves have a given name.”  
  
“Marcheaux,” he says, stumbling on the word. “Georges Marcheaux.”  
  
“Well, Georges,” the Governor purrs, “you must wonder why I am here.”  
  
Marcheaux has a fairly good idea. People pay a high price for an audience with a victorious gladiator—they don’t tend to come for a simple exchange of words.  
  
“I have a proposition for you,” the Governor says. “I want to buy your freedom.”  
  
“What?” Marcheaux says, before he can check himself.

The Governor’s features attempt a smile again. “I want you to join my personal guard,” he continues, as though no interruption occurred. “Your skills will be very beneficial.”  
  
Marcheaux is well aware of the skills he is referring to: fighting, killing people, and taking orders without question.  
  
“You want me to work for you?” He can’t help sounding incredulous.  
  
“I do. More than just joining my Red Guard though, I want you to be their Captain. I need someone at my right hand that I can trust to do what I ask of them.”  
  
“And that someone is me?”  
  
“I have found no one better suited.”  
  
“That’s what you came here for?” Marcheaux asks in disbelief. This situation is not the one he had been imagining.  
  
“It is not the only reason,” the Governor concedes, with a dip of his head. “But you must accept this offer first.”  
  
He must know that Marcheaux is in no position to turn it down. There is no way he would.  
  
Marcheaux inclines his head. “I accept.” Then, after a beat, “What’s the other reason?”  
  
There is a brief moment of stillness where they simply look at each other, and then the Governor is pushing him against the wall with one strong hand. He pins him against the cold brick with the weight of his body.  
  
“Now this is what I expected,” Marcheaux murmurs breathlessly, as the Governor’s hands slip down between them to undo the ties of his belt. The leather falls to the floor.  
  
“Good.” The Governor’s expression is hungry. His nimble fingers work at the threads of fabric holding Marcheaux’s tunic closed at the seams. The design—allowing slaves to dress even when chained—is far more useful than Marcheaux could ever have imagined.  
  
The fabric is pulled over his head, and Marcheaux is suddenly acutely aware of all the unsightly scars littering his body, both from the years of toil and past fights. His chest heaves under the scrutiny. It has never seemed to matter before, but he finds, inexplicably, that he wants to impress the Governor.  
  
He is anticipating repulsion at worst, and no reaction at best. What he does not expect is for the Governor to reach out with a careful hand to examine the latest wound to adorn his skin: a souvenir from the arena.

There is something in the Governor’s eyes he cannot read.

“It is superficial,” Marcheaux says carefully. It is true enough; the gash below his shoulder is already beginning to heal.

The response seems to reassure the Governor, who deems it fit to stop studying the mark left by Marcheaux’s opponent and begins to leave his own. He runs his nails down Marcheaux’s chest, the flesh reddening and raising in their wake.  
  
“I have thought about this since the arena,” Marcheaux admits, the truth of it bubbling out as though dragged from him by the scratch of the Governor’s fingers.  
  
The Governor repeats the motion, causing a few drops of blood to gather in the cuts where his strokes overlap the previous ones.  
  
“I saw you looking.” Strong hands clasp Marcheaux’s shackled wrists, grip tighter than that of the metal. “I knew then I had to have you.”  
  
The possessive words send a thrill through Marcheaux, heat pooling low in his stomach.

The Governor’s hands trail up his arms, careful to avoid the wound, and come to rest on his shoulders. He uses the leverage to guide Marcheaux to the floor. He goes willingly. The stone is hard against his knees, but he does not mind.

This is the one man he will always obey.

 


End file.
